


The We’ll Always Have Paris Affair, Part 2

by SashaTheGypsy



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:53:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24762664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SashaTheGypsy/pseuds/SashaTheGypsy
Summary: The origins saga continues as Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo arrived at U.N.C.L.E.’s secret Caribbean recruitment camp. As told by Illya’s childhood friend, Sasha the Gypsy.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	The We’ll Always Have Paris Affair, Part 2

Act One:  
Off to Meet Our U.N.C.L.E.

In Moscow, Illya Nikolaevich Kuryakin walked onto the U.N.C.L.E. charter plane, stared at the blacked-out windows, and sat down with a scowl. 

Dmitri Mikhailovich Rostov took the aisle seat beside him and saw immediately that Kuryakin was upset about the lack of view. But, as the U.N.C.L.E. representative had explained to them at the Moscow orientation session, the location of the Caribbean training camp had to be kept secret for security reasons. 

Acceptance of this condition was the first step in establishing trust between the fledgling organization and its prospective operatives. Only trouble was, Kuryakin had never been big on trust, especially with people he didn't know.

“It doesn't mean I have to like it," he complained out loud, having read Rostov’s expression. A reluctant participant at best, Rostov had to nag Kuryakin for three full days to get him to come.

Kuryakin didn't have much faith in U.N.C.L.E.’s success, but it was February in Russia, he hadn't taken a vacation in more than two years, and someone needed to keep an eye on Rostov. 

His fun-loving friend had a quirky sense of humour and a tendency to act the clown in a way that could be easily misunderstood — or get him into big trouble. It didn’t take long. 

Once the plane took off, a pretty stewardess emerged from the rear galley with a cart piled with drinks and snacks, and started to work her way up the aisle.

“Ah, a beautiful lady with vodka. My two favourite things in the world!” Rostov said. 

When she reached the front row of the plane, Rostov donned his most charming mannerisms, convincing her to leave a half-filled bottle of vodka and two glasses. Kuryakin feared trouble and was tempted to intervene, but poured a drink and reminded himself Dmitri was a big boy.

After a few shots, Rostov discarded the glass and began to drink directly from the bottle. Many shots later, he stood up and turned to the other five KGB officers on the flight.

“We are going to camp, comrades. So let us sing our old Komsomol songs!”

“For God’s sake Rostov, we’re not children. You’re drunk. Sit down and shut the f*%k up,” ordered Vladimir Illyich Ulyanov, the political officer sent along to keep tabs on the group. 

“Nobody likes you, you know,” Rostov said, shaking his head sadly. “It’s a shame you’re named after Lenin.”

The other passengers looked at each other and gasped audibly. Nobody talked to a political officer this way. Ever. 

“You are cut off,” Kuryakin whispered fiercely between clenched teeth. “Sit down!” Pulling Rostov back into his seat, Kuryakin snatched the bottle from his hand and quickly downed what little vodka remained. 

“You know drinking on a plane makes you drunk faster, Dmitri. You can’t take the combination of alcohol and altitude."

“Oh relax, Illya. I am not drunk. But you are much too tense. You need another drink. And when was the last time you had a woman?"

Kuryakin rolled his eyes and sighed. It was going to be a long two weeks.

Act Two:  
What DoesThe Well-Dressed Agent Wear?

At his apartment in Washington, Napoleon Solo packed a last shirt into his suitcase. He had no idea what to wear to a training camp, but he wanted to be prepared. His personal appearance was a source of great pride to him, and he wanted to make a good impression. Wondering if he should pack some blue jeans just in case, Solo suddenly remembered he didn't own any.

He had chosen to go to the camp out of curiosity and a growing realization that the CIA might not be right for him. 

He feared he might never get the prime assignments or the freedom to act that he would want as a field agent. The CIA was a stodgy, old bureaucracy. It frowned on mavericks and individual initiative. 

Although he’s been forgiven for Paris (where he'd lost a valuable roll of microfilm to notorious KGB agent Illya Kuryakin), he knew the blunder would remain on his record forever.

Besides, the international character of the fledgling organization fascinated him. At university, he had met faculty and students from all over the world. As a political science major, he had listened to all viewpoints, even if he didn't agree. Solo considered himself a cosmopolitan.

If he joined a non-governmental organization like U.N.C.L.E., he could, he thought, learn to overcome his Cold War animosity toward Russians, even former KGB agents. As long as they were more human than that cold bastard Kuryakin. 

With his flight scheduled to depart Washington National Airport soon, Solo checked his watch, then picked up the phone to call a taxi. 

Act Three:  
Can I Help You With That?

At the Caribbean camp, former British Naval Intelligence Division commander and acting U.N.C.L.E. chief Alexander Waverly spent the morning preparing for the arrival of 50 applicants.

His largely volunteer staff supplemented the skelton U.N.C.L.E. staff, was drawn from the Royal Navy and Commonwealth military and intelligence services. Together, the team had juggled flight schedules so all the chartered flights would arrive within a four-hour window, and by 19:00 hours (7 p.m.) local time. A buffet dinner and welcome reception was planned for 20:30, or 8:30 p.m. that evening.

The camp was an abandoned military base. The private Caribbean island had been donated to U.N.C.L.E., thanks to the personal connections of the organizing committee. 

With a mess hall, gym, infirmary, firing range, obstacle course and barracks that could accommodate up to 150 people, the site was ideal. His team had worked tirelessly for three months in order to get the old place in shape on time.

Waverly had staked his reputation on his belief in U.N.C.L.E. He called in 20 years’ worth of IOUs and recruited organizing committee members — all retired military or intelligence peers — from France, Great Britain, India, Japan, Mexico, Turkey, USA, the USSR, and West Germany. Together, they’d lobbied their respective governments for funding and, although no single government was fully committed as yet, monies collected were enough to cover start-up costs. 

The fledgling organization so far consisted of basic infrastructure such as computer and communications systems, offices and a skeleton administrative staff. Currently, it functioned as an intelligence clearing house, passing along information on international criminal activity to various governments. 

Waverly was now ready to unveil his ultimate plan: the addition of a team of enforcement agents who would tackle international criminal organizations head-on. These agents would be deployed to various countries and work in conjunction with local authorities to put criminals away. 

Many countries had promised future financial support. Provided, of course, that Waverly and his colleagues proved to their satisfaction that the U.N.C.L.E. concept would work. 

Few thought it could. Getting people from competing/enemy agencies to put aside their differences and change the perceptions and habits of a lifetime was going to be a gargantuan challenge.

Waverly shuffled his notes, lit his pipe to distract from his growing anxiety, and headed off to a meeting with his committee. 

***

“The issues as I see them,” said psychiatrist-profiler Dr. Nigel Skevington-Jones to the committee, “are twofold. 

“First, these men have undergone a lifetime of indoctrination. They been taught to regard each other as ‘the enemy’. Blood has been spilled.

“When we divide them into mixed nationality teams, expect them to resist working with partners from other intelligence services. 

“Secondly, they come from culturally and socially diverse backgrounds which, in some cases, may be obstacles in relating to their partners.” 

“Snip to the chase here,” snapped Soviet committee member Colonel Anatoly Vladimirovich Potemkin.

Ignoring the colloquial gaffe, the psychiatrist continued: 

“As your psychological consultant, I recommend you make this camp a contest. Award each team points for completing tasks. Display standings on a leaderboard in the mess hall. Update it every night before supper, so they’ll have a good, long time to stare at it. 

“The one thing these men have in common is extreme competitiveness. Use that, and they will be more inclined to set aside their differences in order to win. "

“But will it be enough? It seems to me we will need something more dramatic to prove U.N.C.L.E. works, my friends,” said Gabhail Samoy, the member from India. 

“Dramatic? You mean like we put together two guys, you know, who hate each other‘s guts, and they end up being a successful team?” joked Potemkin. 

“An highly unlikely scenario, Anatoly,” snorted Waverly.

“Maybe not,“ chimed in the newest committee member, a recent retiree from the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency. 

Looking up from the list of attendees, John Jardine smiled.

“And I think I can help you with that.”

Act Four:  
Are We Not All Happy Campers?

The planes bearing the applicants landed on the island’s runway with military precision. Each plane was greeted by staff and a small bus, which ferried the men to their assigned barracks. 

Illya Kuryakin walked into the barracks house and paused to look around. It was a bland, military set-up with 10 army cots and a communal bathroom/shower area. Each cot had sheets and a blanket neatly folded on top. A footlocker the size of a small trunk lay at the end of each cot. 

The accommodations were familiar to an army officer like Kuryakin so he didn’t have any thoughts about it. Picking out a cot near the door and next to his friend Rostov, he dropped his duffle bag on the footlocker and headed for the bathroom to refreshen up before the welcome reception. 

***

Napoleon Solo walked into his assigned barracks house and paused to survey the scene. The room was filled with men chatting amiably in American and British-accented voices. He was startled to see the cots and realized everyone would be sleeping in the same room. 

“What did you expect?” Solo asked himself. “A private room with a view?”

Resigning himself to the situation, Solo picked out the least shabbiest cot snd plunked down on his back. 

***

When the applicants arrived for the welcome reception, they were greeted by Waverly’s team, mostly young women. In contrast, the registration desk was managed by an older lady of about 60 years.

Napoleon Solo arrived with his CIA colleagues and was surprised and delighted by the sheer volume of female pulchritude walking past him. 

Stopping to linger by the door and smoothing the jacket of his three-piece navy suit, Solo smiled and nodded at the large group of women whose attention he attracted. 

One by one, nubile young creatures came over to introduce themselves and engage in a minute or two of small talk. 

With his seasoned eye, Solo started to choose which ones might be lucky enough to receive the attentions of one lonely American applicant.

Meanwhile, after changing into their military or KGB uniforms at their barracks, Kuryakin and his comrades walked in. He was first to reach the registration desk. 

“Name, young man?“ asked the older woman sitting there. 

“Major Illya Nikolaevich Kuryakin, madam.”

“Welcome, Major. I’m Mrs. Cross, acting U.N.C.L.E. personal director. Give me a moment to open a file on you.” 

Taking a black marker, she pulled out a new file folder and wrote “Kuryakin, Illya Nickovitch” on the tab. 

“Nikolaevich,” said Kuryakin, after peering at the folder. “There is no such Russian patronymic as Nickovitch. You have recorded it incorrectly.”

“Young man, I have been a personnel manager for more than 30 years. I know how to open a file,” she replied sternly. 

Sensing a situation in the making, a pretty young woman in a green dress slid over to smooth things. 

“May I be of help, Marion?” she asked with a soft, Scottish accent. 

Relieved, Kuryakin turned to look at his rescuer. His attention was immediately drawn to her long auburn hair, hazel eyes, and warm smile.

“Thank you, Miss?”

“Karen Robinson. Hello, Major.” She glanced admiringly at the handsome man standing there in his camouflage uniform, light blue and white striped telnyashka, and light blue beret.

“It's quite alright, Karen,” interrupted Mrs. Cross. “I can handle this.”

Looking at the annoyed older woman, Kuryakin decided it was time to beat a strategic retreat. Smiling at Karen and thanking both, he moved along. 

Mrs. Cross harrumped, then handed his uncorrected folder to Karen for filing. 

Nickovitch, it seems, was going to stick.

***

While Solo was busy lining up dates, Kuryakin headed into the reception. He stopped in his tracks when he spied the long buffet tables, which held more food than he'd ever seen in a single room in his life. 

Shrimp, salmon, fresh breads, cheeses, fruit, desserts, and hot dishes such as rice, lasagna, borscht, Indian curry, roast beef, cabbage, potatoes, and chicken were there for the taking. 

He hated social occasions and avoided them whenever possible. But maybe this one wasn't going to be so bad after all.

The reception itself was typical, with the usual introductions and speeches from Waverly and a few organizing committee members. Kuryakin was enthusiastic about the event until after dinner when the crowd moved into the bar area.

It was wall-to-wall people drinking, calling out to friends and acquaintances across the room, and loud talking. Kuryakin soon found himself being jostled and pushed. 

With his face aching from too much forced smiling and his tolerance for people stretched to its limit, he decided to return to his barracks. He looked for Rostov, who was at the bar happily downing shots of vodka with some new acquaintances. 

Turning around to leave, Kuryakin backed right into Napoleon Solo.

Solo stared at him, mouth open, stunned, and recognized him at once. 

“I think we’ve met,” said Solo in a cold, deliberate voice, waiting for his nemesis to acknowledge him. 

“I don't think so,” replied Kuryakin.

“Really? Are you sure?” Solo pressed, growing angrier at the Russian’s indifference. 

“If we had, and you had been in any way memorable, I would remember,” said Kuryakin, bristling at the hostile tone in the other man’s voice. 

“But I don't.”

“Oh, Illya, I am so disappointed in you. I thought we'd always have Paris.”

Seeing the potentially explosive situation developing across the room and fearing a fistfight, Solo’s former boss John Jardine swooped in to whisk him away. 

“Hello, Napoleon! How have you been? Come say hello to our friends in MI6," he said cheerily, grabbing Solo's arm and dragging him off in the opposite direction.

Kuryakin glared at the retreating Americans and swore softly in Russian. Paris? 

Puzzled, he went outside and lit a cigarette. 

Then it hit him.


End file.
